Pro Patria Mori
by RedStockingsAndAWimple
Summary: They called it the war to end all wars. As the nineteenth century shifts into the twentieth, the nations find themselves embroiled in rivalries, bitterness, jealousy, and alliances. None of them can anticipate the coming conflict and how it will utterly change the world they know.
1. Hoffnugen und Träume

Many thanks to Couergryffondor and Jacuzy for the beta

* * *

"And that, _kleinen Bruder_, is how I defeated that stupid aristocrat! For the third time!" Laughing, Prussia turns from the blackboard to see his brother watching him with wonder and (Prussia notes with pride) admiration in his large blue eyes. Ludwig sits at his small desk, the image of the model student, his hands clasped in front of him and pencils ready for any notes he has to take. He is still; his legs do not even swing as he listens to his older brother. Prussia loves how attentive, how engrossed West is in his lessons on strategy and tactics, although it also slightly unnerves him to see his brother fill the role of the perfect little scholar so well; Gilbert was never that well behaved when he was young.

West raises his hand slowly. "Was it hard when you had to fight Sweden too, _Bruder_?"

Prussia shrugs. "Maybe a little. I was practically surrounded on all sides, you know, and Sweden really does not know how to stop when he starts fighting. But then Russia got a new boss who decided he didn't want to fight anymore, so the awesome me was able to sweep in and soundly defeat my enemies."

"What about the consequences of the war?" Ludwig asks.

"Consequences?" Prussia scratches his head, trying to think of an answer. Where had his brother learnt about things like that?

"Yes. Don't all wars have consequences?"

"Well yes," Prussia answers. "I got a lot stronger."

"But what else happened?"

Prussia shakes his head. Normally, he does not think about such things, at least, not outside his own experience. Austria must have been talking to West when he wasn't looking, or it could be a leftover concern from…earlier. Smiling, he ruffles his younger brother's hair. Ludwig squirms a little, embarrassed, like all good little brothers should be.

"You know what? I think we've had enough class today. So you and I will talk about this tomorrow, and I promise I'll get you a big book about consequences that you can read all you want. Now let's go outside." He watches Ludwig organize his pencils, pen, and books into neat little piles before grabbing the ball resting in the corner and running outside, their dog barking happily at his heels. Gilbert runs after him and sees Ludwig toss the ball in the air, laughing when the dog jumps in excitement.

"_Bruder_! Catch!" Ludwig throws the ball at Gilbert and almost (almost) catches him by surprise.

"You'll have to do better than that, West!" He throws it back, hard, but Ludwig grabs it with ease and runs. He has grown so fast in just a few short decades, faster than he ever did in hundreds of years. West seems so happy, so full of life, even if he is frequently too serious and worries too much. Gilbert knows it is infinitely preferable to the way he was once, pale, thin, and every breath painful. Ludwig is better now, and one day he will be a strong nation, the strongest nation in Europe, the one everyone will respect. Prussia is determined to see that happen, even if he diminishes in the process.

Maybe one day, he will tell West about the earlier days.

xxx

A sharp tug on his blanket jerks Gilbert awake. Vögelchen chirps excitedly. "Go back to sleep," he mutters to his little bird. He was having such a wonderful dream about beer, too. The tug comes again, and Gilbert rolls over. Groaning, he covers his head with his arms, hoping that whatever is bothering him will give up, leave, and let him return to sleep in peace.

"_Brude_r?"

Sitting up, Gilbert blinks tiredly at his little brother. He is not completely awake, but the sound of Ludwig's voice has roused him sufficiently to function.

"Hey," he says, rubbing his eyes. "What's up?"

Ludwig looks down, embarrassed and begins fidgeting with the blanket. "I just, well…" he trails off. He shakes his head. "It's nothing."

Gilbert knows immediately. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Ludwig looks uncertain for a moment, then nods his head.

"All right, then, come on," Gilbert says. Shifting over, he pats the space on the bed. "You're sleeping with me tonight."

Ludwig's face lights up in relief. "Really? It's all right?"

"You think I'd make this offer if I didn't mean it?"

"No, _Bruder_." Ludwig immediately crawls into the bed and snuggles close to Gilbert. It feels nice, having his little brother so near. Somehow, it makes Gilbert even more protective of him.

"Now, tell me about this dream of yours. Was it very scary?" He feels Ludwig nod, but his brother says nothing. "Come on," Gilbert tells him. "It'll make you feel better if you talk to me about it. What happened?"

Ludwig hesitates for several minutes. "There was a lot of wind. It was very strong, and I felt like I was being pulled in lots of different directions. There were explosions, too, like cannon fire. And there was also a girl. She was very far away, and she was crying. I tried to get to her, but the wind kept blowing harder and harder until it started tearing me apart." He stops and shudders. "_Bruder_?" he asks, looking up at him. There are tears in his eyes, and Gilbert realizes how much this dream has frightened his brother. "That's not going to happen to me, is it? Am I going to get pulled apart?"

"No." Gilbert hugs Ludwig tightly. "I promise I'm not going to let that happen. You're going to be so strong no one is going to dare try and hurt you. And if they do, they are going to have to answer to me." Ludwig calms at that, and they fall silent.

Ludwig's breathing soon slows and deepens. His arms wrap around Gilbert. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, no longer tormented by growing weakness and pains of war. He is too young to worry about what happened in his past, and it is not relevant anyway. Let the Austrian deal with that power and good riddance to them both. Ludwig is safe, growing, and strong. "This is how it should be," Gilbert thinks as he studies his brother's sleeping face. He should have anticipated the nightmares, though. Maybe it would be best if Gilbert didn't tell Ludwig anything about his childhood at all.

Leaning close to his brother's ear, Gilbert whispers, "It was just a dream."

xxx

"Exactly why do you want us to help you, you bastard?" Romano studies Prussia with a mixture of disgust and distrust, while Italy's eyes are wide and curious. They wait impatiently for an answer. Prussia knows he is not a skillful diplomat. Why spend hours debating about something only to come up with a compromise that nobody is going to be happy with anyway? Fighting is so much easier and more fun too. Coaxing Italy and his brother into an alliance, however, requires delicacy—something Prussia is definitely not used to. All the advantages lay in his favor, though. He just needs to figure out the best way to use them.

Leaning forward on the table, he says, "You've fought against Austria for a long time. He didn't want you to get united, but you are. It's an opportunity to get a little revenge, kick his ass again. Everybody else will look at you and see just how awesome you are. They won't want to mess with you two after you defeat Austria again!" He looks Romano and Italy in the eye. "And as brothers, I'm sure you understand my situation." His blood boils at the thought of the Austrian trying to control his brother and limit Prussia's power. Roderich was not Ludwig's brother. Roderich had his chance, and he failed. Damn him for trying to take Ludwig away from him!

"You talk a lot about your brother, but if this is so important to him, why isn't he here too?" Romano asks. Italy says nothing.

"West is very busy. He has things he must do." Gilbert is not about to let Italy and his brother in the same room right now. It would only bring up difficult questions and heartache. Better to keep them separated for as long as possible. "Besides," he adds. "This is between me and Austria."

Leaning over, Italy whispers something in Romano's ear. Romano nods, muttering something in Italian, never taking his eyes off Prussia. Does Romano expect him to pull out a sword, hold it to their throats, and demand that they become his allies? The two brothers talk among themselves for several minutes. Prussia makes no attempt to try and listen or understand them. He can tell from the brothers' expressions and movements that victory is at hand. This has been too easy.

The two separate, and Romano folds his arms across his chest. "If we do agree to fight with you, what can we expect in return?"

"Venetia."

Italy's face immediately lights up. "_Fratello_, please. We have to do this. Venetia, Lovino. My Venetia. Ve, please, Lovino, please."

Romano stares at Prussia in shock, and Prussia knows his tactics have worked. He has given them something neither can refuse. Clearing his throat, Romano still tries to look skeptical. He fails miserably.

"You're very sure of victory, asshole."

Prussia stands up and gathers his things. "Of course I am," he tells them with a smile. "Especially with your help."

Romano says nothing. Italy jumps up. "I'll show you to the door, Prussia!"

They walk through the hallway in silence. Italy fidgets, looking like he is going to burst with questions. Prussia is glad they are alone. He has something in mind for the adorable Italian, something that would not work at all on his brother. It amazes him how well all this has gone. Maybe diplomacy is not as difficult as he thought it was. It is a little like battle strategy or even cards: what to display, what to fake, and when to surprise. He likes it. Stopping at the door, Prussia slips on his overcoat and takes his sword cane in hand.

"Is something on your mind, Italy?"

"Ve, a lot of things, Prussia," Italy replies. "_Fratello_ and I just fought a war. You're so used to fighting, but Lovino and I don't like it very much. I just wonder if we're ready, even for Venetia."

Prussia nods. It is time for his secret weapon. Leaning close to Italy's ear, he whispers, "Do it for him."

Italy gasps. Determination slowly fills his large, amber eyes, and he nods. "I will talk with Lovino," he says. Prussia smiles at him, puts on his hat, and slips out the door.

The battle is won.

Bismarck has taught him well.

xxx

His hands are sweaty. Austria hates it when his hands are sweaty. Pulling out his handkerchief yet again, he feels the small velvet box shift in his pocket. He knows he should not be this nervous. This is not the first time he has done this. He has been married before. "Although," he reminds himself, "those ultimately were not the most successful of marriages." His emperor's words and wisdom echo in his mind. Taking a deep breath, Austria strides into the drawing room.

He needs this marriage. Never would Austria have realized that holding this much power, trying to keep everyone happy, would have been so difficult. Before, he had help, but now he is alone, alone and weak. Prussia's stupid little war hurt him more than Austria had anticipated. The vulgar idiot was just jealous of Austria's influence over young Ludwig. Anger, frustration, and embarrassment well up inside him at the memory of Prussia standing over him yet again, that irritating smirk on his face. "Now is not the time to dwell on the past," Austria tells himself, calming down. He would be weak no more. He needed someone strong, someone different from him, someone who would be able to keep the others happy. He needed her.

Hungary stands with her back to him, dusting the mantle. She hums a cheerful song from her homeland, swaying her hips as she moves along. Standing at the doorway, Austria watches her in silence, admiring the way her long brown hair cascades down her back. The court will neither understand her nor like her; she is too bold, too forward, too different from any expectation of a "proper" lady. Austria does not care. He loves her, and he needs her. Let the court gossip; let them be shocked. His emperor's beautiful wife adores Hungary, and she will silence all the whispers. This match will form a strong empire and ensure the peace and stability of Europe. It is vital for the future of the civilized world. Austria trembles at the thought.

Austria dries his hands again. He must relax. It is not as if he and Hungary have never been together. Marriage will give their relationship legitimacy, give Hungary power she would never have had in her current position. Of course she will accept.

He clears his throat. "Hungary." Turning, she smiles at him, and the words die on Austria's lips. Panic sweeps over him. He tries to remember his emperor's instructions, but he can think of nothing except octaves and frying pans. He has to say something.

"Austria," Hungary answers expectantly. She wipes two ornate figures clean before picking up the vase beside them.

"Elizabeta…" he trails off. He does not know what to say.

"Roderich?" She frowns. The sight stirs him to action. Pulling the tiny velvet box out of his pocket, he opens it, revealing the diamond ring inside.

"Marry me."

The vase crashes to the floor.

xxx

Light floods through the windows, reflecting off the mirrors and gold, making everything in the hall gleam. Raised swords flash brilliantly. The new emperor stands on a platform, surrounded by his most trusted advisors, generals, and nobility. He does not look happy, but Prussia did not expect him to after the numerous debates about his title. Ludwig stands beside his emperor, back straight, serious, and resplendent in his white uniform. Watching him, Prussia feels overwhelmed with pride. His brother has grown up well, a strong and able nation. "Not just a nation," he reminds himself. "An empire." He laughs softly to himself. "The German Empire. What an awesome name."

A bit of movement outside the windows catches his eye. A familiar figure walks in the gardens. Prussia gives one more glance to the coronation ceremony at the opposite end of the room before slipping out of the hall and exiting the palace. Vögelchen takes the opportunity to perch on his shoulder, and Prussia gives him a fond pat. The air is crisp and chilly, although not as cold as it would be at home. Despite the winter weather, the gardens have been well maintained. France approaches him, a cigarette in hand. His hair shines in the afternoon light, but he looks thin and tired. His suit, while fashionable, shows signs of wear. Without a word, France hands him a cigarette, and they stroll through the gardens, the ground crunching underneath their feet.

"I would have thought you would be inside," France remarks finally.

Prussia shrugs. "They're doing fine without me. Besides, this is Germany's day." The name feels strange on his tongue after so many years of just "West" and "Ludwig".

France grimaces.

"What is it?" Prussia asks, even though he knows very well what has angered his friend and enemy. "Don't tell me you're still sulking over my great victory over you!"

France shakes his head. "We have fought and lost wars before," he replies. "I still consider you my friend despite that. I cannot say the same for your brother."

"What do you mean?" France whirls around.

"Was it really necessary to seize my land and give it to him as a present?"

Prussia feels himself growing irritated. "Germany is a growing boy. He needs rich territory like that."

"Oh, _mon Dieu_!" France shouts. "Your brother is already stronger than any of us would have anticipated or wanted! He has grown up so fast, faster than any nation I can remember! How much more would you have him grow, Prussia? Until he overshadows us all?"

"Don't be ridiculous, France. Do you really expect me to stop my younger brother from growing up?"

France stops. He stares at Prussia for several minutes, comprehension dawning on his face. "You're still angry," he says. "You still hate me for what happened all those years ago."

Prussia shakes his head. "That was a long time ago," he replies. He refuses to lie and say he does not still burn at the thought of his friend, crazed from years of revolution and a thirst for power standing by and smiling as the decree ripping his little brother apart was signed.

"_Ouais_, it was." France lets his cigarette fall to the ground, crushing it under his foot. "What is going to happen to you, now that your brother has taken over most of your government and power?"

"I have a lot more free time!" Prussia laughs. France does not. "I'm not going anywhere if that's what you mean. Germany still needs someone to turn to for advice, and the awesome me will be there to give it to him."

"So you can teach him how to steal more vital regions?"

Prussia steps closer to his friend. "Don't try to take Elsass-Lothringen back, Francis. We beat you once, and we can beat you again."

"You don't understand. Her home is near that reg—"

Loud cannon fire and cheers suddenly cut France off. Prussia smiles at the thought of Ludwig, tall and proud, standing beside his newly crowned emperor. He should probably go inside. Ludwig will want to see him. Maybe Gilbert will ruffle his hair, just to see his brother's flustered and embarrassed reaction. He cackles at the thought, and Vögelchen chirps happily.

Glancing at France, he pauses. France's thoughts are clear as he stares at the palace with bitterness and resentment clearly written on his face. His brother and his friend will never be allies, never friends. There is too much between them, far more than either realizes. Prussia shakes his head. If France thinks picking a fight with Germany is going to help him, he is wrong.

"France," Gilbert says. "attack him, and I will destroy you."

* * *

Notes:

Prussia is teaching Germany about the Third Silesian War, one of the many conflicts in the Seven Years War, which incidentally, many historians now call the first true world war. At the same time, Prussia was also fighting Sweden in the Pomeranian War. Fighting numerous enemies at once nearly resulted in a Prussian defeat, but when Tsar Peter III came to power, he broke the Russian alliance with Austria and joined Prussia, which allowed Prussia to recover and gain victory in both wars.

Prussia and Austria butted heads frequently over the German Confederation, mostly over who would have more influence. This brought about the Austro-Prussian War in 1866. Prussia recruited the newly independent state of Italy, promising the Venetia region, which was still under Austrian control. Prussia won, Italy got Venetia, and Austria, finding itself weak, lost all hope of having a strong influence over Germany.

Finding itself weak, Austria's government made an agreement with the Magyars, the most prominent ethnic group in Hungary, forming a "Dual Monarchy", with different governments and prime ministers, but united under one ruler, Emperor Franz Joseph. Franz Joseph's wife, the beautiful Empress Elisabeth, known as Sisi, was very pro-Hungary.

The Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71 was a shockingly quick victory for Prussia and resulted in the formation of the German Empire. Wilhelm I wasn't too pleased with his title of German Emperor (he wanted Emperor of Germany), but Bismarck, the prime minister, overruled him. The coronation ceremony was held in the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles, a pretty hard slap to the face for the defeated France. In addition, Germany received the territory of Alsace-Lorraine (Elsass-Lothringen in German), which had been switching German and French hands since the early days of the Holy Roman Empire. Incidentally, Joan of Arc's home was very close to the part of Lorraine taken. You can imagine the resentment this caused for the French.

The fic's title comes from the Wilfred Owen's poem "Dulce et Decorum est". He quotes the Roman poet Horace, who said, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," which means "Sweet and right is it to die for one's country." Owen, who we'll be see more of later, had this to say:

"If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud  
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,  
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
To children ardent(14) for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est  
Pro patria mori."

You can read the full poem here: warpoetry (dot) co (dot) uk / owen1 (dot) html


	2. L'amitié

Many thanks again to Coeurgryffondor and Jacquzy for the beta. You ladies are the best!

* * *

The music rises and swells, filling the gilded hall with vibrant, energetic notes. Ivan smiles, tapping his foot to the beat. There is something about the music that reminds him of the ballet, even though this is just the overture to an opera. He knows little about opera, but Austria had promised to teach him all he wanted to learn. "The best way to acquire knowledge about opera is to attend one," Austria had told him. "Not one of Germany's cacophonic melodramas. You should have something pure, classic, elegant." It had not taken Austria long to pick "the perfect one".

Their party has the box to themselves. It could not be in a better spot. Russia has a prime view of the stage, and if he leans forward a little, he can see the violinists in the orchestra pit, their bows moving at rapid paces. On his right sits Austria. Even in the dim light, Ivan can make out the beatific expression on his face. Hungary is beside him, fluttering her fan and holding Austria's hand. The diamond stars in her hair glitter. Russia is not sure they fully suit her, but she looks content all the same. Germany sits on his left. His posture is stiff, but he seems to enjoy the music as well. Occasionally, Ivan glances over to see Prussia watching him with keen eyes. After so many years, Russia still does not like him. Memories of wars and invasions are too dominant in his mind for him to ever truly forget. He does not understand the way Prussia's red gaze travels between him and Germany with a mixture of apprehension, disgust, and pleasure. Nevertheless, for the sake of his friendship with Germany, Ivan is willing to tolerate his older brother.

Friendship. It seems so strange to Ivan. He has had alliances before, several of them, but he cannot remember a time when anyone actively wanted to get to know him. Yet here he is, sitting in a box with four people who want to do just that, waiting for an opera to begin. As soon as they return to Austria's house, Ivan decides he will write a letter to his sisters. He knows Katyusha will love to hear about the performance. Natasha too.

The curtain rises, revealing two people in beautiful, fanciful dress singing in Italian. Although Austria had explained the story to him, something about love and marriage, Ivan still finds it difficult to follow. And even though he thinks the opera is quite fascinating, Russia knows he has a better art form, something that only requires music and the grace of the body.

"Next time," Ivan says, leaning over to whisper into Germany's ear, "I will take you to the ballet." Germany smiles and nods, and Russia can barely contain his joy.

He has friends.

xxx

It does not take France long to find the perfect wine. This is a special occasion, after all, and he is determined to offer his guest and friend only the best. How could he do less? He carries the bottle and two of his wineglasses with ease. Setting them on the table, he pops the cork with a smile, fills the glasses, and hands one to the rather depressed looking Russian sitting opposite him. "I hope you enjoy this," Francis tells Ivan. "Château Margaux, one of my best wines." He raises his glass. _À ta santé_." Ivan smiles uncertainly and cautiously takes a sip. "Is it good, _mon ami_?" Ivan nods but sets his glass on the table.

"I prefer vodka."

"I promise that the next time we meet, I will serve the best vodka that I can find."

"The very best vodka is in my country."

"Then perhaps the next time I am in your country, you will offer me some of this excellent vodka."

"I will."

France sips his wine contentedly. It is truly is excellent. "I must say you have been very good to me lately, _mon ami_. I am honored that your new emperor decided to visit my country with his beautiful little family. And his coronation ceremony was one of the most magnificent things I have seen in decades. It certainly beat anything old _Rosbif_ could create."

"Thirteen hundred."

"I'm sorry?" Russia stares at the table.

"The stampede was an accident. It wasn't supposed to happen. We did what we could to make it better, but nothing ever works perfectly." Russia's head snaps up, and he looks at France intently. "I love my tsar," he insists.

"Of course." France instantly recognizes the signs; he has experienced them personally. Russia's people are discontent. France knows very little about what could have caused this, but he hopes the young, sweet-looking emperor will be able to resolve it somehow very soon. But the man seems so gentle, so mild-mannered, and far, far too inexperienced. France suddenly feels uneasy. Everything is too familiar for his liking. Hoping that this is just a small period of natural government instability, Francis smiles at Ivan and quickly changes the subject.

"I hope you don't mind, but I have already arranged our plans for this evening. First, I will expose you to only the finest food in France, followed by a performance of the ballet, and then I thought we could take a little walk around Paris. The city is truly amazing at night, and I am sure that you would enjoy climbing the Eiff—."

"We are going to the ballet?" Ivan interrupts. His purple eyes gleam with excitement. They are truly lovely—large, expressive, a beautiful color. France could easily fall in love with those eyes, but the memory of Russia's cold, furious gaze in the middle of the coldest winter France had ever experienced still lingers in his dreams. "Perhaps in a few more years," he tells himself.

France nods. "_Oui_," he replies to the Russian's question. "_Giselle_. Does that suit you?"

"_Da_. When Germany was my friend, we always went to operas and concerts. I often told him I would take him to see the ballet, but then I was told that we were no longer to be friends." Ivan's wide smile falls. "I do not know why that happened."

France shakes his head. He wonders if Prussia had anything to do with dissolving the alliance. Russia and Prussia had shared a long, vile history together, and his friend does wield a great deal of influence over Germany. Whatever the reason, France delights in finding a new friend at the time he needed it most. "I find it does no good to speculate about things like that. The past is past, and there is nothing that can be done about it." He refills Russia's glass. "Now drink, my friend, and do not worry about a thing."

xxx

"I do not see how it could possibly damage your reputation to give my people a little more power!"

"It is not a question of reputation, Elizabeta. You are forgetting the terms of our marriage."

"All I ask for is a little more sovereignty, Roderich."

"You already have more sovereignty than many of the people in this house. Is that not enough?"

Hungary's sharp voice cuts through the walls and into Germany's ears. Groaning, he rolls over, pulling his pillow over his head; maybe this will muffle their voices enough to allow him to finally get some rest. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on going to sleep, but the words "Magyar", "Bohemia", and "Serbia" still creep through, keeping his mind from fully relaxing. Disgusted, Ludwig throws his pillow away and slips on his dressing gown. As he exits his room, he slams the door hard. He doubts Austria and Hungary heard it through the sound of their arguing, but it allows him to vent some frustration.

Stepping into the parlor downstairs, he is surprised to find the light on and his brother sitting in Austria's favorite chair, scribbling away in his diary. His bird sits quietly on his shoulder. Hearing someone enter the room, Prussia glances up. A knowing smile spreads across his face.

"Hello _Bruder_. Trouble sleeping?" Ludwig nods. He moves to sit on the piano bench.

"They have been arguing for over an hour. I just couldn't get any rest with that racket." He can still hear the sounds of their fighting, but at least it is much softer in here.

Prussia closes his diary. "Now you know why I never let anyone marry me off. That's the problem with marriages; there are always going to be fights and squabbles that keep things from getting done. It can hurt alliances too."

"Will it hurt ours?"

"I won't let it," Gilbert replies simply. Sighing, Ludwig turns his attention to the piano, his fingers tracing the fine woodwork. He hopes nothing happens to the alliance. He has a difficult time making friends anyway. France despises him, and Germany could not tolerate England after he heard about South Africa. At least Austria and Hungary stand by him, even if their bickering has slowly grown more frequent. It feels a little odd that his closest ally is practically a blood relation, but Germany is grateful for Austria's support and refuses to complain.

"It is times like these I regret we let Russia go," he says. The piano is closed, preventing him from toying with the keys.

"It was your emperor who made that decision, West."

"He is your emperor, too." Prussia shakes his head.

"He is my king. There is a difference, West. Besides, you are forgetting sweet little Italy."

Frowning, Germany turns to face his brother. "I still do not understand why you have never introduced me to such an apparently valuable ally."

Prussia almost looks perplexed. "You have met Italy." Germany shakes his head.

"No, I met South Italy." The two of them had disliked each other on sight. Germany had found Italy Romano appallingly rude, uncertain, disorganized, and full of bravado. Why anyone would want such a person for an ally, Germany does not know. He only hopes that Italy Veneziano does not share his brother's temperament, or else he would have to write the both of them down in his books as two of the most disagreeable people on earth. "I have never had an opportunity to meet the North."

Gilbert shrugs. "Veneziano is very busy. He needs to take care of all that Renaissance art in his region and make sure those things are in good condition. It takes up a lot of his time, you know. Besides," he says with a smile, "You are not exactly idle these days either. It's hard finding a time agreeable for you two, even for an informal visit." Ludwig can think of nothing else to say, so he nods. He does not know why he feels like Gilbert is hiding something from him, but he will not question his brother's decision, for now.

Above them, the sounds of Austria and Hungary's voices suddenly cease. Curious, Ludwig rises from the piano bench and stares up at the ceiling. "They stopped." He looks to his brother, only to see him failing to stifle his laughter.

"So they have," Gilbert remarks with a wicked grin. Taking Ludwig's arm, he begins to lead him up the stairs. "Come on, West, you're sleeping in my bedroom tonight."

"Why?"

"Your room is next to Austria and Hungary's. You can hear whatever they do pretty clearly, can't you?" Ludwig nods.

"The walls are a little thin."

Prussia cackles. "That's what I thought. You're not going to get any sleep if you go back there. Now be a good _kleinen Bruder_ and follow me." Ludwig rolls his eyes at the way Gilbert still treats him like a child, but he marches after him nonetheless.

xxx

_My dear Kiku,_

_ I found your most recent letter quite interesting. It seems you have been very busy these past few months. I heard about your victory over Russia's navy. Congratulations. That really is impressive. I fully admit to being a little shocked when I heard the news, if only because I know Russia's navy was rather large and impressive, even though it was outdated and old fashioned. If you do not mind, I would greatly enjoy seeing your battleships next time we meet. Perhaps you would also like to see mine? The dreadnaughts are something to behold. I think you will be suitably impressed by them._

_ I believe I have some news that will shock you. France and I recently signed an alliance. I know it is quite surprising, and sometimes I cannot believe that I agreed to the blasted thing. France and I have been at odds with each other for as long as I can remember, and even though we have not had any military conflicts recently, I still dislike the sight of his bearded frog face. He is lazy, lecherous, and guzzles wine. In addition, I have never seen such exhibitionism or decadence as in a little place of his called _Le Moulin Rouge_. Of course, I was quite shocked at it all, especially the dancing, but France, in his usual manner, kept trying to ply me with champagne and point out the "aesthetics" of the actresses' lovely legs…. I am sorry for that Kiku; I did not mean to go off like that in my letter. Anyway, what I mean to say is that, what with Germany growing more bullish with each passing day, our diplomats thought it would be a good idea if we formed an alliance. It would be useful to us both, especially if Germany and Prussia ever got it into their heads to start a war. Do not worry about our friendship; my boss assured me that this will have no effect on that._

_ Apart from that, very little of note has happened since your last letter. The Princess of Wales is expecting again, and the other little children are very excited. Enclosed is a copy of _The Hound of the Baskervilles _by Arthur Conan Doyle. It is an excellent book, and I thought you might enjoy using it to practice your English. The weather here is cold and crisp, and the first snows have just begun to fall. How is the weather in Japan? The cherry tree blossoms were very lovely the last time I was there, but I expect they have gone by now._

_I miss taking tea together. It was very relaxing the last time we did it. When you come to London, remind me to show you the English way of doing it. _

_Good luck with Russia and China._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Arthur Kirkland_

xxx

The strings of a guitar sing softly as Spain waits beside the bar. It is an old folk song, one that he knows well, and he hums along. The crowd of people prevents him from watching his friends, but he hopes they are behaving themselves as well as they can. It has been too long since they have all had an opportunity to meet together like this. France has been running around Europe making friends like only he can, and Prussia, while seemingly not as busy, spends nearly all of his time with Germany. As for himself, Spain finds he has more free time now, time that allows him to think and reconsider all the things he had once believed.

"Two wines and a beer," the barmaid says, pushing the drinks to him. "Do you need a tray, _señor_?"

"I think I can handle it. _Gracias_." Spain digs around his pocket to pay her, then gathers the drinks in his hands. The girl gives him a concerned look, but Spain smiles at her reassuringly; he will manage this. Without much difficulty, he maneuvers through the crowd, squinting to keep the smoke from irritating his eyes. Somehow, he manages to spill only a little of their drinks on himself. Reaching their table, he sighs in exasperation at the sight. His friends are not even looking at each other. France smokes a cigarette and watches an artist sketch a particularly well-endowed young woman. Prussia is engrossed in a newspaper, even though Spain knows his friend's Spanish leaves something to be desired. Who reads a newspaper in a bar anyway? He slams the drinks down on the table, jolting them both to attention.

"Beer!" Gilbert exclaims and immediately takes a large gulp. Francis pulls his wine glass to his slowly and studies its contents.

"How is it up there, Antoine?"

"Busy," he tells them, taking a sip of his own drink. "You two owe me."

"I'll pay you back soon," Francis replies.

"Me too," Gilbert says.

"Of course." Always the same promise. Antonio knows they will eventually get around to it, even if it takes them several years to remember.

"_Mon ami_," Francis begins, "is there a place in this city known as Avignon?"

"Sort of," Antonio replies with a smile. "The _Carrer d'Avinyó_. There's a, well," he winks, "there's a brothel there."

Francis nods. "I thought so." He leans forward. "Do you know what one of your artists has done?" Spain drinks his wine.

"I have no idea. It's hard for me to keep up with all of them, especially the ones that live in your cities. Which one?"

"Picasso."

"Ah." Spain likes Picasso, even if he has only met him once. He found the young artist bold, brilliant, with a complete disregard for old rules. Exciting. He has promise. "What has he created?"

"A brothel scene," Francis replies. "_Les Demoiselles d'Avignon_ he calls it. It is unlike anything I've ever seen."

"Is that a good thing?" Antonio asks, ready to defend the young artist's work, even though he has never seen the painting.

"_Oui_, I think it is. It's wrapped up in his studio at the moment. He should exhibit it." Antonio nods, and Francis sips from his glass. "I saw the construction work on the church when I arrived," Francis replies. "It's impressive. How is it coming along?"

"Slowly," Antonio tells him. "You remember how long it took to build churches when we were young? It's the same here. Hopefully, it'll be finished sometime in this century."

"A hundred years seems too long to wait for a church," Gilbert remarks. Rolling his eyes, Francis whispers something that sounds suspiciously like "uncultured Lutherans". Antonio silently agrees, but unfortunately, Gilbert overhears Francis' comment. His eyes flash.

"You weren't exactly the model of Catholic piety a hundred years ago." Francis's jaw clenches.

"If you are ever unfortunate enough to experience revolution, Gilbert, then you will understand clearly exactly how painful it is."

"I never said it didn't hurt. I just—."

"Could we talk about something else?" Antonio interrupts. "Something other than art?" His two friends turn to him expectantly, and Antonio scrambles for a subject. So much is touchy between them that it's almost impossible to find something to say without one of them taking offense sooner or later. Antonio hates this, despises it. They have all fought against each other at least once in their lives, but the animosity usually died down relatively quickly once the conflict had ended. There is something different here, something that Antonio does not like. This is more than bosses' orders or petty rivalries over territory. This, Antonio realizes, is personal, and that terrifies him.

"I was in Rome a couple of months ago," he finally says. Gilbert perks up at that.

"How is Italy?" he asks.

"Lovino's fine. Same as ever," he replies with a smile. Antonio does not get to see him nearly as much as he wants to, but his former charge seems to be thriving, and that delights him greatly.

Gilbert chuckles awkwardly and looks a little disappointed. "Well, I was actually asking about Veneziano."

"Oh! I didn't see him. Lovi said he was in Milan. I suppose Feli is doing well."

"You seem awfully interested in Italy's wellbeing, Gilbert," Francis remarks, tracing the lip of his glass with his finger.

"Don't rise to the bait," Antonio silently pleads.

"Why shouldn't I?" Gilbert asks. Sighing, Antonio closes his eyes. "I suppose should ask after Canada." Francis grips his wine glass tightly. "But then again, I guess I would have to go to England for that answer." Francis' knuckles are white, his gaze murderous. Antonio tenses, waiting for the inevitable moment for the glass to shatter in Francis' hand. Gilbert smiles. "They are so close."

"You disgusting, Prussian—."

"When is the war?" The two of them suddenly stop, staring at Antonio as if he had grown another head. They burst out laughing.

"War? What makes you think there's going to be a war?" Gilbert asks.

Antonio shrugs. "I don't know. Just had that feeling." Francis takes his glass and sniffs it.

"It's not his drink. I don't know where you get these ideas, Antoine."

"I don't either. I don't want to go to war," Gilbert says.

"Neither do I."

For the rest of the evening, all signs of animosity disappear. Francis and Gilbert laugh, swap jokes, and trade stories. Antonio stays quiet for most of the evening, watching them with interest. Despite his friends' protests, he knows something is going to happen. He just hopes that it does not destroy their friendship. The three of them have been close for too long to allow a conflict to annihilate their bond. "I just hope it comes and ends quickly," Antonio thinks as Gilbert and Francis loudly sing a song out of tune. "I'm tired of playing mediator."

xxx

"_Angleterre_," France's voice echoes from inside the house, "where is your wine?"

"I don't have any," England shouts sharply. He rolls his eyes. After all the effort of creating a nice little garden party for his two allies, France has to spoil it all by rummaging through his kitchen searching for a bottle of something England does not even like. He hears a small crash and winces. If France breaks anything in his house, alliance or no alliance, England will pluck out that infuriating little beard of his and make him swallow it. "What's wrong with tea?" he asks, trying to keep his temper under control.

"I quite like tea," Russia pipes up.

"I have no desire to experience food poisoning." France pokes his head out the back door. "I know you have wine in here, and I will find it." He disappears again, leaving England and Russia sitting alone in the warm sunshine. England has no idea what France meant by the first remark and feels personal offense on behalf of his favorite baker. Forcing down his annoyance, he smiles at Russia.

"Well, while he is wasting his time, would you like some tea?" Russia nods.

"_Da_, please." He watches England's movements with interest. "At home, we serve tea differently. We heat the water in a samovar and then drink it in tall glasses. We also don't have so many sweet things, usually just bread and butter. _Matushka_ sometimes talks about having tea like you, though."

England pauses and hands Russia a cup and saucer. "_Matushka_?"

"I'm sorry, I meant my tsarina. She was the granddaughter of your Queen Victoria, was she not?"

"Oh yes. Yes she was." He remembers how much his queen adored the shy, quiet, little princess. "What was that you called her? _Matushka_?"

"Yes. _Matushka_ for my tsarina, and _batyushka _for my tsar. They mean beloved mother and father. It is because they are like parents for us. They look after us, and protect us, and guide us through all hardships."

"Fascinating," England remarks. Rarely has he seen such devotion to a boss. It unnerves him a little.

"Would you like to see a picture?" Before England can say anything, Russia scoots his chair closer and pulls a photograph out of his pocket. Five children in court dress stare out at him with gentle expressions, and England finds himself stunned for a moment.

"Beautiful," he says, and it is the truth. The children are indeed very beautiful. Russia smiles.

"_Da_, they are." He points to the figures. "This is Olga. Tatiana." His smile grows a little wider. "Maria." His eyes glint with mischief. "Anastasia. And Alexei," he finishes, pride in his voice. "They are my family. I have my sisters, Ekaterina and Natalia, and then I have them."

"May I see?" With Russia's permission, he takes the photograph. The four girls are elegant, poised, the picture of feminine beauty. England's eyes fixate on the boy. He looks serious and determined in his uniform but very delicate as well. A thought enters England's head, and he sighs deeply.

"Russia, how is your heir?"

Russia frowns, genuinely confused. "I don't understand."

"How is his health?" When Russia makes no reply, England continues. "I mean, I remember one of Queen Victoria's sons had an illness, hemophilia, that made him bleed rather badly. I am not entirely certain how it is passed, but as her great-grandson, I did not know if something had perhaps—."

"Alyosha is fine," Russia interrupts. The smile has gone.

"Yes, I'm certain of that. I was just thinking if—."

"Any rumors about Alyosha's health are untrue," Russia tells him firmly. He takes the picture from England's hands and looks at it for a moment before slipping back into his coat. "That picture was taken four years ago. He is growing up to be strong."

"Of course." England nods. "Of course." He cannot ignore the feeling that Russia is hiding something, but he refuses to press the matter further.

"I told you I would find something," France declares as he hurries out of England's house, carrying a bottle. England silently rejoices at France's perfect timing. "Château d'Yquem, perfect for a day like this." He turns to England. "It is the same bottle that I gave you nine years ago, _Angleterre_. Unopened." He sighs. "_C'est la vie_. How fortunate we are that it has such excellent longevity." He pours three glasses. Raising his, he says, "To friendship?"

The three glasses clink together. "To friendship."

* * *

Notes:

The alliances of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries are messy, tangled things. Soon after the Franco-Prussian War, Austria-Hungary, Germany, and Russia entered an alliance. This didn't last very long since Austria-Hungary and Russia had a major rivalry over the Balkan region. Germany kept ties with Russia though, until Wilhelm II came to power, fired Bismarck, and dissolved the alliance with Russia. This sent Russia straight into France's arms so to speak, and the two of them whipped up an alliance very quickly. Meanwhile, Italy entered an alliance with Austria-Hungary and Germany, forming the Triple Alliance, which would last for a few years. England, suddenly realizing that it could use some allies too, tried to approach Germany, but Germany, repulsed by the Boer War, flatly refused. This led England to create the Anglo-Japanese Alliance, which Himaruya dealt with in his usual, entertaining fashion. Then the unthinkable happened, and England and France created an alliance, which was soon followed by an English alliance with Russia, creating the Triple Entente. Whew. And that's the easiest way I could explain it.

During the coronation celebration of Tsar Nicholas II, a huge crowd gathered in a field waiting to receive souvenirs. Rumors spread that there was a shortage. People panicked and started a stampede, which created a truly horrifying scene and resulted in the deaths of 1300 people. Nicholas and Alexandra were horrified but were advised to attend a ball at the French embassy (Relatives feared that turning down the invitation would offend their ally.). Stupidly, they agreed. Even though they left early and declared a day of mourning, the damage to the new tsar and tsarina's reputation was done, and they never escaped the shadow of what happened.

Prussia, while part of the German Empire, remained its own kingdom, which was ruled by the emperors of Germany. So, the German emperor was also the king of Prussia.

Hemophilia is a disease where the blood cannot clot properly. While there is danger of excessive bleeding with a small cut, bruises are much more dangerous because they can result in internal bleeding. It is passed down from mother to son, but not all sons inherit the gene. Of Queen Victoria's four sons, only her youngest, Leopold, was a hemophiliac. Unfortunately for the Russian imperial family, Nicholas and Alexandra's only son inherited the disease.

The chapter title means "Friendship" in French.


	3. The Lamps Are Going Out

June 28th begins uneventfully.

Arthur Kirkland argues with his siblings.

Francis Bonnefoy reads the newspapers.

Gilbert Beilschmidt and his brother Ludwig test howitzers.

Ivan Braginski plays toy soldiers with Alexei Romanov.

xxx

The house is quiet today.

Hungary's shoes click on the polished floor as she walks through the hallway. Confusion and anxiety churn in her stomach. What is she supposed to feel? Her husband's future emperor is dead, assassinated. She should be sad. She should mourn for the Empire's loss. But she cannot grieve. How can she? The Archduke had little love or respect for her and her people, a feeling they wholly reciprocated. His succession promised too many changes, a return to the way things once were. Hungary knows she could not return to that; she and her people have power and authority. They will not give those up. Still, no matter what the Archduke believed about her, indignation swells inside Hungary at the thought of the man and his poor, Czech wife shot and bleeding to death. No one should have to die like that.

Passing a closed door, she hears soft sobbing. Bohemia is weeping. Hungary decides not to disturb her. To do so would be thoughtless. Bohemia grieves for the Archduke and his wife in a way Hungary never can bring herself to. The futures held great hopes for Bohemia, and she genuinely loved the couple. Hungary hurries from the sound.

She approaches her husband's study. Gently, she knocks. Hungary hears no reply and enters anyway. Austria does not notice her. He sits at his desk, sorting through sheets of music for what is probably the seventieth time that day. Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert. His eyes rest on each composition just long enough to note the title and composer before placing it in its designated pile. To an untrained eye, Austria seems perfectly normal, but Hungary knows. She sees the slight tremor in his hands, the ramrod stiffness of his posture, his too even breathing. She recognizes the behavior; she has seen it before, after Mexico, after Mayerling, after Geneva. Austria is not all right, no matter how hard he tries to convey that he is.

She moves to the small couch and sits down. Dusk has arrived, casting everything in various shades of pinks, oranges, purples, and splashes of dark blue. Hungary sighs. These past two days have been long, far, far too long. She glances down at the newspaper pushed halfway under a pillow. Yesterday's event is splashed across the front. Roughly, she shoves it away until she no longer can see the black and white print.

"Serbia," Austria says finally. Hungary turns to look at him.

"What about him?"

"He knew."

"You can not be certain of that, Roderich," she tells him. Stefan is many things, rebellious and a source of headaches for them both. But an anarchist? A co-conspirator with assassins? Hungary finds that too impossible to believe.

"He had to have known. How else could this have happened?"

She licks her lips and tries to measure out an even-tempered response. "There will be an investigation," she says. "That will help determine just what took place." Hungary refuses to say anything more about Stefan's supposed guilt, at least for today. Now is not the time for one of their arguments.

"Yes." Reaching for his coffee, Austria takes a sip. He grimaces. "This is cold."

"Well, it has been sitting there since morning."

"Has it?" He takes a deep breath. "I would like another cup." The order is clear. Biting the inside of her mouth, Hungary rises.

"No, please," Austria protests. "Please, stay with me, Elizabeta. I will ring for Bohemia."

"She is crying."

"Of course," Austria replies.

Without a word, Hungary walks behind Austria and gently buries her hands in his soft hair. She looks up just in time to see the last of daylight change into night. The sound of rustling sheet music fills the air.

xxx

Serbia's pen scratches against the paper. This is his only hope. If he and his people fight hard, they may be able to defeat Austria and Hungary's forces. He knows their empire is not as strong as Austria likes to pretend it is. But Serbia also knows the couple are not a pair of idiots, and no one would enter a war without an ally to help. If Germany and his brother enter this conflict, it will all end. Unless this works.

_Ivo,_

_Believe me. I had nothing to do with it. Attacks against my people are already __happening.__Please, help me._

_Your little brother,_

_Stefan_

Rubbing a hand over his face, Serbia sighs deeply and tries to ignore the twinge of pain in his chest. The situation grows worse with every passing day. He spots a falling star. "I wish they would leave my people alone. I wish we could work something out. I don't care what my government and military got themselves into. Just let them realize my people are innocent." The star disappears in the night. He watches it, disappointed.

"Was that really too much to ask for?" he tells the darkness.

xxx

Roderich needs a drink. He searches through the cabinet for several minutes before his eyes rest on a bottle of _palincă_. His wife must have put it there. It will do for now. Reaching out, he takes the bottle, opens it, and pours himself a glass. His hands tremble, that damned shake that has plagued him for nearly a month now. It is because he is nervous and uncertain, even though he knows what is to be done. Assassination cannot be tolerated, and Serbia will learn that. The list will teach him. If he refuses the demands, there will be consequences. "What a terrible thing," Roderich says. He grips his drink with both hands and takes a sip. The powerful fruit flavor dances on his tongue. Of course Elizabeta's people would create something with such a strong taste.

He hears footsteps behind him and sets his glass down. "I thought you and Ludwig had gone to bed," he says irritated.

"I smelled alcohol." Gilbert walks up to him. "I thought _you_ would be with your wife."

"I could not sleep," Roderich replies.

"Separate beds again?" Gilbert smiles, that infuriating grin.

"That is none of your business."

"Actually, it is. You, your darling wife, and West have an alliance. It is in my interest to see that your marital squabbles do not fuck it up." Roderich flinches.

"Must you be so crude?"

"War is coming, little prince. Yes, I do."

Roderich sighs. "I told you the truth; I am having trouble sleeping." He sets the glass down. "It is a temporary problem, brought about from stress. Once everything gets settled down, it will go away."

Gilbert chuckles, a harsh, hissing sound. "If you could hear yourself." Bending down, he begins digging around the drinks cabinet. Roderich winces at the sound of clinking bottles. "Don't you have anything stronger in here?"

"This is not a bar," Roderich tells him. Straightening, Gilbert swipes his glass and sniffs the contents.

"Hungarian?" Roderich nods. Gilbert shrugs. "Well, beggars can't be choosers." He tops the drink off and takes a large gulp. His pale eyebrows rise. "Fruity," he remarks.

"I will not damage the alliance."

"You're weak, and you know it."

"I can fight Serbia," Roderich tells him indignantly. He can. He is an empire; Serbia is one nation, a nation in the wrong. Even Serbia's government admitted the military had been involved in the assassination plot. And yet, there are those who believe Roderich cannot measure out justice where it is due. Those days will end. Too long have people underestimated him. He will show the world what he is capable of. He will.

"Maybe," Gilbert agrees. "But if Serbia refuses that ultimatum, which any sane nation would, then there's going to be a war. And where Serbia goes, Russia follows. You really want to fight Russia?" He flicks an invisible row of dominoes. "Then, France might come in. They have an alliance too, you know. Now you've got a war on two fronts. And who knows what England's going to do about this thing. All you've got is West and me. Have you heard from Italy?"

"He wrote a letter. Neither he nor his brother want anything to do with this."

Gilbert smiles, an odd glint in his red eyes. "Smart kid." He pauses and raises the glass to his lips. "You know, if you were so desperate to have your ass handed back to you _again_, I'd have been happy to help."

This is too much. "I do not suppose you care, but my future emperor—."

"Save me the argument. I don't need a repeat performance."

His temper flares. Roderich counts to ten. Then twenty. "If you are so disdainful of me, why do not you dissolve this alliance?"

"West respects and loves you and Hungary too much for that. We will defend you, no matter what happens."

"Even if you have to fight France? I thought you and he were friends."

"_Were_." Prussia looks away.

"I don't understand."

"I love my brother."

"Oh," Roderich replies simply. "Then what will happen to France?"

"There's an idea floating around. It's foolproof if it works."

"I see." Turning, he glimpses a blonde braid and the corner of a white nightdress. She disappears as soon as he notices her. Roderich frowns. "How long has Lili been there?"

"She followed me down."

Massaging his forehead, he sighs. "Elizabeta and I have told her repeatedly that she has nothing to worry about. Everything will be all right."

"Yes, maybe everyone will decide to have a picnic in the sunshine instead." Prussia shrugs. "Of course, this is Serbia we're dealing with, so who knows what could happen. Big dreams." Taking one final gulp, he hands Roderich the empty glass. "Bit sweet."

Feeling no more relieved, Roderich places it on a tray and hurries upstairs to Elizabeta.

xxx

When Ukraine is worried, she knits.

Somehow, the clicking of the needles, the feeling of the yarn slipping through her fingers, and the knowledge that she is creating something practical and useful soothes her anxious mind and allows her to collect her thoughts. It does not mater what fibers she uses or what she makes. Her hands move in practiced rhythms, working through patterns and shapes with ease. She sits comfortably in her chair, feet flat on the floor, the wool flowing out from her, as she works quietly and tries to make sense of the world she lives in.

Ukraine has been knitting a great deal lately.

Socks may not be simple, but Katyusha has made enough of them for Vanya that she no longer needs to constantly watch her hands. Instead, she focuses on the figure of her younger sister sitting on the window ledge and staring out the window. A slight frown hangs on her pale, delicate features. She says nothing, but Katyusha occasionally hears her sigh. She wonders what passes through Natasha's mind, if it is the current difficult situation or…something else. Katyusha hopes it is not the latter; sometimes she has an extraordinary problem cajoling Natasha to talk to her, and she does not always understand her sister's thoughts.

"Natasha, would you like to make something? I have enough wool for both of us," she offers. Whatever is on Natasha's mind, Katyusha knows it cannot be good for her to brood for so long. Leaning down, she nudges the basket close to her.

Natasha's gaze does not move. "You know I have no talent for that sort of thing, _syestra_."

"That is not true. You are still learning," Katyusha replies disappointedly. "I had hoped we would both give Vanya something when he leaves."

Surprised, Natasha turns to her. "Vanya is getting those?"

"Of course. Who else would I be making them for?" Without another word, Natasha's hand darts out, grabbing a skein of dark blue yarn and two needles. Her eyes alight with fierce concentration as she casts on the first stitches. Her movements are slow and lack the practiced skill of Katyusha's, but she makes no mistakes when the needles begin clicking together. Katyusha smiles.

"That is a lovely color," she tells her. "I think Vanya will love it."

Natasha's hands pause. "I want him to wear it under his coat, next to his heart."

"I'm sure he will. Vanya can look at our gifts, and our love will help keep him warm." Natasha stares at her with her bright, clear eyes before bowing her head and furiously resuming her knitting.

Raivis knocks on the door; Katyusha recognizes the hesitant sound. "Come in," she calls as cheerfully as she can. He and Eduard step inside, both looking nervous. There is a large book under Eduard's arm and an empty glass in his hands. Katyusha wonders what he has been doing. They stand, awkward and silent, until Raivis speaks up.

"How are you, Miss Ukraine?"

"I'm fine. Thank you." Raivis turns to Natasha, but he says nothing. Her demeanor frightens him. Looking up, Katyusha meets Eduard's eyes. He chews on his bottom lip. "He knows something," she realizes and feels a sense of dread sweep over her.

A moment later, Toris enters. "Mr. Russia told me to come here." He glances at Raivis and Eduard for a moment. "He said he had something important to tell us."

"Do you think…d-does this mean…" Raivis begins.

"It does," Eduard replies simply. Katyusha does not stop knitting.

"Were you able to hear anything?" Toris asks him.

"Only bits and pieces of phrases. I was not about to put a listening device in His Majesty's office. I doubt Mr. Russia would be very pleased if he found it." He catches sight of Natasha's eyes boring into him and flinches.

"Well, I suppose we had to expect it. Mr. Russia is so fond of Mr. Serbia, after all."

"Stefan is not our brother," Natasha speaks up. Her voice is cold.

"Even if he wasn't, he and Mr. Serbia have an alliance. Mr. Austria and Mrs. Hungary have declared war, so Mr. Russia is bound to fight and defend him."

"Serbia asks too much." Natasha's hands clench. "Do not speak again! Your conversation made me drop a stitch."

"It is nothing that can't be easily fixed. Here, let me." Natasha stares at Katyusha for a moment before placing the yarn and needles in her outstretched hand.

"Don't tell Vanya that I made a mistake," she tells her.

"I think that will be very pretty," Toris remarks quietly. Natasha ignores him.

"If His Majesty declares war too, will our people have to fight?" Raivis asks.

"I don't think we will be able to avoid it," Eduard says. "We live in Mr. Russia's house. We will have to contribute."

Katyusha focuses on rescuing Natasha's stitch. She hands the yarn back to her sister.

There is another knock, and Vanya walks inside the sitting room. His face is solemn, his eyes sad. He clasps his hands tightly behind his back. Katyusha wants to go to him, stroke his hair, rub his back, and tell him everything will be all right. She stops knitting.

He surveys the room. "Ah, we are all here?" He nods. "Good." He falls silent for a moment. No one speaks. Katyusha can barely move. Finally, Vanya takes a deep breath.

"_Batyushka_ and I have talked for a long time, and he has given the order to mobilize." Katyusha's blood runs cold. "We have not yet declared war, but when it happens, we will be ready for whatever they throw at us. I'm sorry. I wish we could have come up with something else." He looks at Katyusha and Natasha. "Don't hold up supper for me. I may be very late tonight." Without another word, he leaves, closing the door behind him.

A harsh stillness settles over the room. Mobilization. The word rings in Katyusha's head like the Easter church bells. She can take it no longer. Burying her face in her hands, she begins to weep.

Through her sobs, Katyusha hears Toris' soft voice. "I must telephone Feliks."

xxx

RUSSIA HAS MOBILIZED STOP GERMANY REACT SOON STOP I THINK IT IS FINALLY COMING STOP WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO STOP

Francis Bonnefoy

—

MY GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS ARE DIVIDED STOP FOR NOW THIS IS A CONTINENTAL MATTER STOP I CANNOT SAY MORE STOP

Arthur Kirkland

—

WE HAVE AN ALLIANCE STOP ORDER GIVEN TO PARTIALLY MOBILIZE STOP MY COAST UNDEFENDED STOP SURELY YOU CARE ABOUT THAT STOP

Francis Bonnefoy

—

AGREE COASTLINE MUST BE DEFENDED STOP PREPARATIONS ALREADY IN PLACE IN CASE GERMANY SHELLS AREA STOP CHURCHILL THINKS UNLIKELY STOP CANNOT SAY MORE STOP

Arthur Kirkland

—

ANGLETERRE WE HAVE AN ALLIANCE STOP THIS HAS BEEN INEVITABLE STOP RUSSIA AND I ARE GOING TO WAR WITH GERMANY STOP WILL YOU BE THERE TOO STOP

Francis Bonnefoy

—

BETTER SOONER THAN LATER STOP GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS STILL DEBATING INVOLVEMENT STOP I WILL NOT RISK MY PEOPLE IN A WAR THEY HAVE NO STAKES IN STOP THIS IS STILL A CONTINENTAL PROBLEM STOP

Arthur Kirkland

—

FULL MOBILIZATION ORDER HAS BEEN ISSUED STOP THIS WILL NOT BE A CONTINENTAL ISSUE FOREVER ANGLETERRE STOP

Francis Bonnefoy

—

GERMANY HAS DECLARED WAR ON RUSSIA STOP

Francis Bonnefoy

—

DEAR GOD NOW YOU MUST FOLLOW STOP

Arthur Kirkland

—

AND WHAT OF YOU STOP

Francis Bonnefoy

—

UNTIL GERMANY DOES SOMETHING TO WARRANT MY INVOLVEMENT THIS IS YOUR AFFAIR STOP I CANNOT SAY MORE STOP

Arthur Kirkland

xxx

The sweet scent of peaches fills the air of Emma's little kitchen. Her small knife removes the skin in long, curving strips. The fruit divides in half neatly, and Emma removes the dark pit from the center. As she cuts the peach into small squares, she pops a piece into her mouth. The succulent taste delights her, and she smiles. This is perfect. How nice of Antonio to send her some of the best produce from his harvests. Emma cannot help but feel a little guilty at the gift; her friend has not had an easy time since his war with America, but he still manages to send her and Lovino gifts of fruit. It is too sweet, she thinks wistfully. She will not let his present go to waste, and she knows she can use the peaches in many things. Maybe she will invite Jan for snacks. She and her brother have much to talk about.

Her doorbell rings. Quickly, Emma rinses her hands of the sticky juices and hurries to the front of her house. Tugging at her apron sash, she removes it, stashing it underneath a cushion. No one will notice. The doorbell rings once more. "I'm coming," she calls out to whoever has come to visit her. She glances at a mirror, smoothes her hair a bit, and opens the door.

"_Goedemiddag, Belgie_!" Prussia exclaims in heavily accented Dutch. Germany stands beside him, stiff and serious.

"_Gutentag, Fräulein_," he says.

Emma gives them a wide smile. "What a surprise!" she declares. "Please, please come in." The two follow her to the sitting room. "I am sorry if the house is a bit of a mess. I wasn't expecting any company," she chatters. She glances back. Prussia grins widely at her, while Germany's gaze flicks around the room. His expression has not changed since he stepped into the house. For a few moments, she watches him, his evenly measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back like a general reviewing his troops. For all his confidence, Emma notices a twitch of nervousness in his face and eyes.

She gestures to the sofa. "Please, sit down." Prussia immediately makes himself comfortable. Germany joins him. His hands rest on his knees, his posture rigid. Emma stares at him for a minute before nudging a plate of chocolates towards the two brothers. "Help yourself," she tells them. Prussia takes one; Germany politely refuses until Prussia rams an elbow into his ribs.

"These are great! Are they yours?" Prussia asks.

"No, I brought them from Callebout," she answers. "Thank you for the flattery, though."

"Anytime, _Belgien_."

Germany slowly bites into his and nods his thanks.

"Well," Emma begins and trails off. She does not know what to say, so she takes a deep breath and waits. Prussia and Germany look at her expectantly. Sighing, she understands that she must begin this conversation. Taking a chocolate for herself, Emma smiles. The rich sweetness settles on her tongue and gives her an odd sort of comforting courage.

"You have been busy lately," she tells them.

"What can you expect?" Prussia shrugs. "With everybody mobilizing and snipping at each other, you can't let yourself get idle."

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Emma agrees. "Of course, as a neutral country, I would rather not take sides in this brewing conflict."

"Right." Prussia's laugh is a little forced. Emma's eyebrows rise. Germany watches him, uncertainty in his blue eyes. Prussia smiles at him reassuringly. Leaning back, he pops another chocolate in his mouth. "We actually wanted to talk to you about that, Emma."

"Oh?" She slowly shifts the plate out of her guests' reach. "I thought I just said I did not want to take sides."

"We respect that," Germany speaks up. "We were not going to ask you to join us as an ally."

"Definitely not," Prussia adds. "What we want to talk about doesn't have anything to do with that."

"Not much," Germany murmurs.

So the time has come. "And what is it?" she asks. The brothers share a long look before either speaks.

"We are at war with France," Germany finally tells her.

"This is recent," Emma says. Recent but not unexpected.

"It hasn't been officially declared yet."

"But when it is, we'll need a way to get into his land," Prussia says. "One that France won't expect. Emma, if you let our armies in, I promise they won't touch a thing."

"You said 'if'."

"A promise is a promise."

She closes her eyes. A minute passes. "Get out."

"What?"

"I asked you to leave. Please." She opens her eyes. Prussia and Germany stare at her incredulously.

"_Belgien_," Prussia begins. "Reconsider."

"Do you know what you're asking? I am neutral. I will not just look away while you march through my land to hurt another nation! You might say that you are respecting my wishes, but you are just trying to use me!"

Prussia shakes his head. "It's a changing world, Emma. I don't think a 'scrap of paper' is going to matter to many people anymore."

She rises. Prussia and Germany immediately stand. She must look up at them, but she will not budge. "Get out of my house," she says, her voice low.

"_Belgien_..."

"Get out!" Surprised at her outburst, they hurry to the hall. Emma follows them closely. Prussia walks swiftly. Germany follows at his heels. He turns back.

"_Fräulein_, please, reconsider—."

"I won't! Get out! Get out!" Prussia grabs his brother's arm and pulls him away. His eyes meet Emma's, and she sees the indignation, fury, and hurt pride in that red gaze. "This is what his enemies see," she thinks. "This is what they fear." She shrieks at them again. Let him be angry and Germany too. She will not give up something she holds dear.

The brothers leave. Emma slams the door behind them.

* * *

Notes:

Oh July Crisis, how complicated you are. My goodness, this chapter was difficult, and it went through a lot of different versions. Hopefully, this one turned out all right.

Mexico refers to the execution of Emperor Maximilian I, the brother of Emperor Franz Joseph in 1867. Mayerling refers to the apparent murder-suicide of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth's only son and heir, Rudolf, and his seventeen-year old mistress, Baroness Maria Vetsara at the family's hunting lodge in 1889. In 1898, an anarchist fatally stabbed Empress Elisabeth as she walked to a steamship in Geneva. The Habsburg family did not have it easy in the later half of the nineteenth century. Of course, it got worse.

The chapter title comes from a quote attributed to British Foreign Secretary Edward Grey. "The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime."


	4. Never Such Innocence Again

The windows shatter. Broken glass sprays across the room. Belgium screams as pain rips through her body. Shells rain down, blasting stones apart and ripping craters into the earth. She can hear the cries of her people. They fight, they flee, they struggle to hold their positions from the onslaught. Belgium grits her teeth. They were not prepared. There was nothing they could do. Germany's forces are too strong and quick. Her shoulders shake. She saw what was in Prussia's eyes; she knew the brothers would not take no for an answer. Seizing the tablecloth in her hands, she forces herself to straighten. Belgium notices blood against the pale green fabric.

"My land is not a road," she thinks. She inhales deeply and hurries to her china cabinet. Gently, she touches the dark wood. She will miss her porcelain dishes, but delicate things cannot survive such a world. Belgium pulls open the drawer. Her pistol lies inside. "Switzerland is lucky. He has mountains. No fool would cross those." But she has flat, easy rolling plains. How lovely for trade. How lovely for an invading army.

The pistol's weight in her hand is a small comfort and relief.

She pushes the door of her house open. Bits of broken glass crunch under her shoes. Dark smoke hangs in the air, and she smells its acrid scent. It burns her nose. For a moment, she thinks of her brothers. One safe, untouched, unbothered, still neutral. Will it stay that way for long? The other Germany and Prussia had taken before they even approached her. Has he also experienced this, or was he spared the fury of their insulted pride? Belgium hopes Luxemburg is safe and well treated. She wonders if that is a fool's dream.

Her eyes sting with hot tears. She blinks them back, once, twice, three times. Now is not the time to weep. She will cry when the guns are silent, the dust clears, and every German soldier lays down his weapon for the last time. Not now. Not a minute before that day.

She must stand with her soldiers. She must find her king. She must protect her people.

Belgium's grip on her pistol tightens. Gathering her skirt in one hand, she runs to the forts. Shellfire and dying men's shouts echo in her ears.

xxx

"Vanya, be brave," the oldest says.

"Vanya, stay strong," the second tells him.

"Vanya, come home to us," the third whispers in his ear.

The fourth simply smiles and slips a photograph into his pocket.

xxx

"_It's a long way to Tipperary,_

_It's a long way to go._

_It's a long way to Tipperary,_

_To the sweetest girl I know."_

England watches the men march and sing. His horse stands completely still, undisturbed by the loud cheers going on around him. England pats the horse's neck encouragingly. He is lucky to have found such a fine mount. It is a good animal and will serve him well in the coming months.

His eyes focus on each man's face as the new soldiers pass by. England knows he should not; such action will only hurt him in the end. He cannot help it, though. He feels a swell of pride at the sight of his men, so young and so fresh. Most of them are still in university: Oxford or Cambridge. They are filled with the stories of knights and heroism, glory, comrades in arms, and honor. They go to save a trampled nation and defeat the villain. England inhales deeply. Just a month earlier, he would never have supported getting involved in Austria and Hungary's little revenge plot. But that was before Germany and Prussia decided to strike Belgium down. The very thought fills England with rage. What had Belgium done to deserve such treatment? She kept her distance from the intrigues her neighbors embroiled themselves in. Before, England would not risk his men, but Germany's cruelty was just the thing to bring him and his citizens into this conflict. They would save her and her people. England vows this with every beat of his heart.

He hopes Belgium is all right, no matter what Germany and Prussia have done to her. England has already heard the stories of what is going on over there, and they fill him with rage.

Sensing his peaking emotions, his horse shifts a little. "Hush," he soothes it. "It is all right. You'll probably see worse in a few days." England dreads the battle almost as much as he longs to put Germany in his place. Apprehension plagues him. His foes are formidable; the fight will not be easy. His men know this, even as they cheerfully sing. They will win, though. England is certain. He is strong, and together with his dominions and allies, they will give Germany and Prussia such a thrashing that the brothers will never attempt such vicious acts again. It should not take long, either. If all goes well, his men will be home by Christmas. That would indeed be a happy way to end this difficult year.

Suddenly, a woman bursts out from the throng of adoring well-wishers. She grabs a man, a complete stranger from the way he stares at her in astonishment. The woman kisses him firmly on the mouth and disappears as quickly as she appeared. The men march on. White handkerchiefs wave in the air. A mix of optimism and anxiousness settles inside of England, making him oddly jittery. A trickle of sweat runs down his neck. It is a terribly hot day, after all.

"I will do my duty," he repeats the words he told his king. "I promise I will."

"_Goodbye Picadilly,_

_Farewell Leicester Square_

_It's a long, long way to Tipperary,_

_But my heart's right there."_

xxx

Kneeling on the stone floor, Erzsébet presses her hands together and prays. She prays for her people, for her soldiers, for the wives and children left behind. She prays for the Emperor, the politicians, and the generals. She prays for their allies. Most of all, she prays for her husband.

Her mind is divided. Roderich should be with his men at the front fighting this war he has pursued so vigorously. He seeks revenge. Let him have it. Let him realize how strong he really is, even with all of his land, history, and people living under his roof.

Erzsébet closes her eyes. Roderich is not a soldier; he never has been.

Unbidden images fly into her mind. Roderich bleeding, his spectacles smashed, his body nearly unrecognizable. She has seen the new innovations that everyone is so proud of. Roderich has little skill with even basic weaponry. How does he expect to survive out there? She should be there, assisting him, protecting him. Working as the equal partner in this arrangement they have. "Equal partner," she repeats to herself. That is what they agreed on when they married. No one seems to remember that now. Her husband's generals forbid her to fight. The Emperor loathes the thought of it. To them, she should be quiet, demure, and submissive. She must stay at home, while her men go to the East.

Do they truly expect Erzsébet to wait at home like the patient little wife while her husband faces Russia's strength and Serbia's cunning?

She looks up at the statues of Jesus, Mary, and St. Joseph. Do they hear her? She wonders why she worries about her husband so much. If she found herself in a similar situation, would Roderich pray on his knees? "But you never will as long as you are his wife," Erzsébet reminds herself. "He will not even give you the opportunity." She frowns. If only Roderich gave his consent, they could convince the generals together. Erzsébet knows the ways of warfare well. She practically grew up on the battlefield.

Her eyes widen. An idea comes into her head, a wild, foolish, dangerous idea. It is insane, yet she refuses to dismiss it. She is strong; she can handle heavy weapons. Could she pull it off? Erzsébet knows she can. Conrad insists the war will be short anyway. Erzsébet thinks the man is a fool, but perhaps, for once, he is right. If he is wrong, she believes she can endure until the deception is no longer necessary.

"Mrs. Hungary?" Liechtenstein's soft voice interrupts her thoughts. Surprised, she turns to see the girl standing at the entrance of the chapel. She wears her white nightdress, and her hair is loose. Erzsébet rises. She winces at the pain in her knees.

"Lili, what are you doing awake?"

Lili enters the chapel. Her bare feet barely make a sound. "I cannot sleep." Erzsébet nods, understanding.

"I have that problem too." Lili walks up beside Erzsébet.

"Are you worried about Mr. Austria?" she asks.

"I am," Erzsébet replies.

"I think Mr. Prussia is too. He told me Mr. Austria doesn't know what he is getting into."

"Gilbert said that? When?" She is not surprised. Gilbert has always been extremely critical of Roderich's military skills. Frequently, he delights in lording his superiority over him, much to Erzsébet's annoyance. This time, it sounds like an astute observation.

"Before the list was sent to Serbia."

Erzsébet frowns. "If he thought that, he might have tried harder to keep Roderich out of this."

"Maybe Mr. Prussia thinks the conflict will somehow help Mr. Germany." She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't understand that, though. Wars always hurt someone in the end."

Wrapping her arms around the girl, Erzsébet pulls her close. "Are you frightened?"

"Yes."

"We will protect you."

"Even if my people do not fight? I don't want them to get involved in this."

Erzsébet touches Lili's head tenderly. The girl has seen many, many conflicts. Erzsébet knows better than to comfort Lili with promises that all will be well. "Roderich and I respect your wishes," she tells her.

"Thank you." A moment passes. "Are you leaving with Mr. Austria tomorrow?"

Erzsébet sighs. "That is a funny question."

Lili shakes her head. "It's not a funny question. Are you?"

"The generals don't want me to go."

"Then I'll ask another question. Are you going to fight Mr. Russia?"

Erzsébet looks down at the girl. "And if I said yes?"

"I wouldn't tell anyone."

"Well, you have your answer."

"Is Mr. Austria going to fight too?"

The girl is too smart for her own good. "Of course he is." Pressing a kiss to her forehead, she whispers, "Say your prayers, Lili, and go straight to bed."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hungary. Be safe," Lili says as Erzsébet hurries out of the chapel.

She removes her slippers before climbing the stairs. The house is dark, and most of its occupants have retreated to their rooms. Erzsébet feels strangely calm. She knows what she must do. It will be for only a little while, anyway. It may be dangerous optimism, but it is better than worry and hopelessness. She will save her husband from unnecessary harm. If their leaders judge only one of them fit to face their enemies, then it will be her. "What a good partner you are," she hears a little voice in her head whisper. The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She ignores it.

Slowly, she opens their bedroom door. Roderich is still, his face hidden in the darkness. He is not asleep. Erzsébet lies down beside him. A husband and wife should be together on a night like this. Roderich reaches out, and Erzsébet touches his hand. His skin is soft. She shifts closer. Their fingers intertwine.

xxx

_Dear Alfred,_

_Well, this is it. I know what you think about this whole thing, and I understand that. It's Europe's problem, and it really shouldn't bother us. But it does bother me. Maybe it is because of my position, but I feel like I have to stand beside Arthur and Francis. They need all the help they can get, especially if Francis' rants about Prussia have any truth. On top of that, well, I've never been one to stand aside when a lady is hurt, and I'm not going to do it now. I suppose you've heard some of the things that are going on over there. Disgusting. I never thought Germany could be so vicious. Emma has disappeared. There's been no word, no sightings, nothing. I'm very worried about her._

_There's a lot of excitement going on. I guess that's natural. I feel it too, really, but I'm also nervous. Things are so different in Europe, and maybe they'll be all right, but I'm not sure. Sorry, I think I'm rambling. What I'm trying to say is, sometimes I feel like I'm the only one, apart you that is, that remembers your civil war. Arthur tells me repeatedly that it's going to be short, but I don't know. When was the last time they fought a real war? I mean a war where both sides were heavily armed and trained? I wonder if they've forgotten. I remember what your civil war did to you, and the idea of that kind of damage happening to Francis terrifies me. Anyway, I'm still not making sense. Don't worry about me. From what I hear, it's going to be quite a company. Jack and Danny are coming. Ravi too. I haven't heard from Gupta, but I think Arthur will have him doing something, especially if things spill into his area. I don't know if they will, but there are rumors. With all of us there, things shouldn't be so bad._

_I heard Roosevelt wants to take men to Europe. If he does, will you go? What has President Wilson said about it?_

_If you don't mind, could you come up to my house occasionally and check on Kuma? He can take care of himself, but I would feel better if I knew someone was looking after him and making sure he was all right._

_I'll write as often as I can. I'll tell Arthur and Francis hello for you, too._

_Your brother,_

_Matthew_

_P.S._

_If this is over soon, let's spend Christmas together. It's been a while._

xxx

Austria removes his leather gloves and tugs on the cuffs of his sleeves. He hates his uniform. It is well tailored, but it does not fit. Whenever he catches a glimpse of his image in the mirror, all he focuses on are wrinkles and folds. He looks like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothing or a young man putting on a show of valor and pretending to be something he is not. Austria understands why. Warfare does not thrive in him like it does for Prussia, Germany, or even his wife. He was not bred for war; Switzerland knew that well. It has been centuries since the thrill of battle has inspired him, since he could hold Italy by the scruff of his neck. He cannot wear his uniform like a second skin, and that disturbs him.

Memories of past failures play in his head. He ignores them. Dwelling on the past will only distract him and cause pain. Maybe if he was a stronger fighter, if he was comfortable with the new technology, things might be better. Others would not look at him as if they expected him to invent some sort of compromise in order to save his delicate skin. Austria brushes invisible dust off his sleeve. They have forgotten he can fight fiercely once he has been pushed into a corner. He might have lost battles in the past, but he has won wars. Austria does not relish combat, but he will show the others exactly what he can do.

He sighs. Why did Serbia have to be so difficult?

Pushing open the door, he enters their informal dining room. Hungary is waiting for him. She stands beside a table laden with fresh pastries, a final treat before he leaves for the front. His wife gives him a slight smile. She wears a pale mulberry gown that makes her figure both statuesque and soft. The color suits her; Austria has never liked Hungary in black. Returning her smile, he sits down. Hungary pours him a cup of coffee and sits opposite him.

"What did the Emperor say?" she asks, spreading jam on a piece of toast.

Austria adds a bit of sugar to his coffee. "He told me to be brave and remember what I am fighting for. I intend to make him proud." He takes a sip. Hungary watches him. "He also gave me a message for you."

The knife makes a clinking noise as Hungary rests it on the porcelain plate. "What was it?"

"He wants you to remember your place in this arrangement and that this is for the good of the Empire."

"It is for the good of the Empire that I remain here while you and my people fight our enemies?"

"Elizabeta," Austria begins. He is unsure how to start. This is not how he wanted to spend his last breakfast at home. "Understand. It is not your place to fight this war. It is all taken care of. What would happen to our house if both of us were occupied in the East? Your duty is to remain here and make sure Anna, Jakub, and the others remain in line and stay loyal."

"What do you mean it is not my place? I have fought for you before when my status was much less." Austria places a hand to his temple. "I am as much a part of this Empire as you. We are threatened, and you need all the help you can get. Roderich, let me fight with you."

"I cannot." His head feels fuzzy. He takes another sip of coffee, hoping that will help. "You did help me in the past, but it is not necessary now. Your people's efforts will be of great assistance, but you do not have to come too. I can handle this. You must stay here."

Hungary leans back in her chair. For a moment, Austria thinks she has accepted his judgment, but he knows his wife better. "I knew you would say something like that."

"Well, it is what has been decided."

"Foolish decisions," Hungary mutters, and Austria does not feel like contradicting her. "What time does your train leave?"

Austria glances at his watch. The numbers blur. Why is he suddenly so dizzy? He finishes his coffee. Perhaps it will clear his head. It does no good. He needs to lie down, but there is no time. He must finish breakfast, give final instructions to the servants, kiss Hungary goodbye…Why did they have another disagreement now? Austria knew Hungary was not pleased, but could she not keep it to herself? He needs stability right now, not rebellion. She always wants more, more, more, and Austria does not know what else he can give. What can she want? She is his wife. Her people have some sovereignty. Is that not enough? He looks up, and Hungary stares at him with an anxious, curious expression. He removes his spectacles and rubs his eyes.

"An hour," is all he can manage. Perhaps he has enough time to lie down. The sofa is only a few feet away. He stands, and the floor shifts like ocean waves. Hungary rises and moves close to him. He brushes her away. He does not need her help. Squaring his shoulders, he takes a step and falls to his knees. Hungary's arms wrap around him. She is so warm and strong that Austria takes comfort in her embrace. He tries to focus on her face, her green eyes, her brown hair, the sound of her voice. She is saying something, but the words make no sense. He just wants to sleep. His eyelids are heavy.

Suddenly, through the haze of his mind, he recognizes what she is repeating.

"I am sorry. This is for the best. You'll be safe. I promise. I promise."

He understands, and indignation fills him. He struggles against the growing exhaustion. She cannot do this. It is impossible. He tries to move, but his body is too heavy. Her hand cradles his head.

"I will protect you," she whispers.

"Erzsi," he begins, but he cannot continue.

Darkness engulfs him.

xxx

"Will you be all right?" Gilbert folds another shirt and slips it in the bag.

"Of course," Ludwig insists, a little annoyed that his brother persists asking these questions. He understands the situation well. Gilbert has drilled military history, weapons training, and strategy lessons into his mind and body. If asked, Ludwig can list the numbers of men, animals, and artillery in each unit with perfect ease. He feels proud of his abilities, and he relishes the gleam of pride in Gilbert's eyes. Part of him does not want to admit it, but Ludwig was waiting for an opportunity like this, where he could show the world whom he was and what he could do. For as long as he can remember, his neighbors treated him with apprehension, distrust, and resentment. Is it his fault that he grew up quickly?

Maybe if he had maintained his friendship with Ivan, the tensions in the East would not be so strong. Ludwig will not criticize the Kaiser for the decision, though. Any "what ifs" are speculation and irrelevant. It was probably for the best. Ludwig cannot comprehend what it would be like to fight a friend. It cannot be good. Frequently, Gilbert rants about France, calling him a variety of vicious names and insulting his reputation. If warfare can destroy a friendship so thoroughly, then Ludwig never wants to find himself in such a position.

Not that he would ever want to be friends with France if half of Gilbert's stories are true. "Why does he not fight back?" he wonders aloud. The lack of resistance his forces have faced so far has been stunning. Even Belgium's people put up a struggle.

"Because, _kleinen Brüder_, we still have the element of surprise." Gilbert grins widely. "No one expected us to do what we did. This is something you must remember for the future. Strike fast and never hesitate. Like this." Before Ludwig can react, his brother pokes him hard in the belly. Ludwig jumps. "Ow," Gilbert mutters, shaking his hand out. "Sometimes I forget you don't have a soft little tummy anymore."

Ludwig rubs the spot. It does not hurt, but Gilbert's fingers left a dull pain. "Did we do too much in Belgium?" he asks. He likes the blonde nation. She always seemed so gracious and cheerful.

Gilbert's smile fades. He continues packing his bag. After a few minutes, he shrugs. "Our offer was rejected. We came in. There was resistance. We fought back. That is all there is to it. She knew the consequences."

"We stayed in there too long." Ludwig sits on Gilbert's bed. It is true. He has memorized the timetables, and he knows they are days behind schedule. "Will it affect us?"

"Of course it will affect us, but I don't think it is so bad that we cannot recover." Gilbert looks at his watch. "Twenty minutes. I should hurry up." The grin returns. "I'll say hello to Russia for you."

"And Roderich, since you'll be fighting with him."

"That's one way to put it." Gilbert sighs and shakes his head. "If Conrad thinks he can turn the little prince into a fighter, he is more delusional than I thought. Anyway, I can handle Russia by myself."

"Then maybe you can be back for Christmas," Ludwig suggests. Gilbert says nothing. "This will be over by Christmas, won't it? That is what the generals are telling His Majesty."

Gilbert places a hand on Ludwig's shoulder. "Yes, it will definitely be over by Christmas." His red eyes are serious, and Ludwig does not know whether or not to believe him.

"You think the generals are lying?"

"Lying is a harsh word, West. They are simply confident in their abilities. Completely understandable, since they are working with the most formidable pair of brothers in the world! When faced with us, our opponents will turn heel and run. You have nothing to worry about." He shoulders his pack. "Now, are you sure you will be all right?"

"Yes," Ludwig repeats. "I promise I will be fine."

"Good. Now, listen to your officers but trust your own judgment. Look after your men. Don't get tangled up with strange women; they're trouble, especially in France. Write to me and tell me about any developments, but be discreet. You never know who's reading your mail. And remember who you are."

"I will," he promises. "You do the same?"

"Absolutely." Gilbert turns and stares at Ludwig. An odd looks comes in his eyes. He rests his hand on the side of Ludwig's neck.

"I am very proud of you," he whispers. "You have grown up so much."

Suddenly embarrassed, Ludwig glances down at their boots. "Thank you. I could not have done it without you."

"Of course not!" Gilbert laughs. Grabbing Ludwig's arm, he pulls him off the bed. "Now get your cap and come see me off at the station."

xxx

At first, Francis does not notice the pain.

Then, his leg gives out from under him.

The rifle falls from his hands.

He collapses on the ground.

Blood gushes from his ruined knee. He grips it as the hot liquid splashes over his hands, staining his blue jacket, soaking into the field underneath him. He grits his teeth, willing himself not to scream in agony. Around him, Francis watches as his men continue to charge and fall as the German guns cut them down. They shout. They cry. Some hesitate, while others continue moving forward. Francis sees their faces.

Shock

Uncertainty

Terror

Francis' head grows light from blood loss. The color is indistinguishable from the brilliant red of his uniform trousers.

He knew Germany was incredibly strong. Prussia would not let him be anything less.

Francis thought he could beat him this time.

The German troops advance. Their spiked helmets gleam in the sun. Francis imagines he can see Ludwig among them, tall, blond, those blue eyes icy with determination.

Francis feels the land slip out from under him.

The hated call rings out. "Retreat! Retreat!"

Arms wrap around him, pulling him up. A sergeant heaves Francis onto his shoulders. "Let me help you, Captain. We need to get out of here."

Darkness tinges his vision. Francis guesses his body will be dead before they can reach the doctors' care. But not for long.

Hate inflames every part of his being.

Germany will pay. He will pay for every stolen foot of territory, every destroyed home, every soldier's life lost.

France swears this with his soul.

xxx

There was a battle once, when Prussia was still young and naïve about the ways of the world, where his knights fought against the forces of Poland and Lithuania. Prussia remembers the way he watched in horror as his leaders were slaughtered and humiliated and his knights rendered powerless. In that moment, he thought the world was ending. Never had he been so shamed. Blood stank on his black and white tunic as he was forced to bow to his victors and acknowledge their superiority. The memory still leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Prussia wonders if Russia is experiencing the same shock and horror as he did then.

Never did he expect it to be this easy. He has always feared Russia's power, and he has felt the sting of defeat from him before. But this is summer, and General Winter is nowhere to be found. The advantage lies with him.

The Germans push forward. The Russians panic. They drop their guns and run.

A smile spreads across Prussia's face. Times change. The conquerors become the conquered. Ivan has entered his land; Prussia will force him out.

In the chaos, Prussia spots him. Russia's eyes are wide with confusion and fear. He is a piteous sight, like a defenseless bear.

Prussia's grip on his rifle tightens.

This is it. Decades of diplomacy, contrived friendships, holding his tongue, flattery, and delicate, formal dinners come crashing to their end. He is a soldier, born for battle.

Prussia charges.

His blood sings in his veins.

He has missed this.

* * *

Notes:

Okay, first I am so, so sorry for the long delay between chapters. A little thing called grad school applications entered my life late last summer, and has left me a poor, bitter, shaken shell of my former self. (In all seriousness, those things are time-consuming, complicated, and expensive, and leave you biting your nails and doubting your self worth.)

We've finally got war! Germany's military might really did take everybody by surprise, from the French in the West to the Russians in the East, especially at the Battle of Tannenberg. Stories (most of them false) about atrocities German soldiers committed in Belgium provided a slew of propaganda material for the Entente, especially England, who was incredibly skilled at making Germany look absolutely vicious. It's frequently called "The Rape of Belgium", but as you might have guessed, I'm steering away from _that_ as much as possible. As for what is happening to Belgium in this fic, you'll just have to see.

"It's a Long Way to Tipperary" was a popular song among English soldiers during the war.

Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf was Chief of General Staff for the Austria-Hungarian army and navy.

For anyone curious about Hungary's decision, there were women who disguised themselves as men and fought in WWI. One was a Serbian woman named Milunka Savić, who joined to protect her brother (she's also the most decorated female combatant in military history). So it does have some grounding in history.

The title is "Never Such Innocence Again" in Dutch.

Hopefully, you won't have to wait another six months for the next chapter. And keep your eyes peeled for a new historic fic of mine coming soon.


End file.
